


Limbo

by Thisistheend



Category: Warrior Nun (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Avatrice, Character Study, Don’t question the settings too hard I don’t get them either, F/F, Gen, Happy Ending, Help Mary broke my heart again, Hurt/Comfort, I swear it's not as scary as the tags say guys, Internalized Homophobia, Lilshotgun, One Shot, One Shot Collection, Religious Guilt, Werewolf vibes? Werewolf vibes, anyways I need aquarium vibes for Beatrice NOW, nothing like a mental breakdown in the woods, thanks Catholic friend for the research help, the found family dynamic is a hill I will die on, wikihow save my eternal soul
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:35:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28303923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thisistheend/pseuds/Thisistheend
Summary: A collection of short stories on how each sister of the OCS finds a place in their family. Each chapter focuses on an individual Sister Warrior- how her doubt makes her stray, and how her faith brings her back home.
Relationships: Shotgun Mary/Shannon Masters, Sister Beatrice & Sister Camila & Sister Lilith & Shotgun Mary & Ava Silva, Sister Beatrice/Ava Silva, Sister Lilith/Shotgun Mary (Warrior Nun)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 50





	1. Beatrice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Confessions** by Sudan Archives

Slipping away is the easy part. It’s early morning, though the aquarium shuts out any semblance of day. Beatrice leaves her sisters in the kelp forests. They’ve huddled together on the cement floor all night, restless. Their sleeping forms rise and sigh with the pace of the tides. Fish approach them with curiosity, only to flee at the slightest twitch of an eyelid or a hint of a snore. None of the sisters seem bothered by the crowd of sea creatures, nor do they stir when Beatrice rises at such an early hour. She’s careful not to bump Ava’s shoulder, which rests comfortably beside her. Camila lays at Beatrice’s feet, curled up into a ball on the hard floor. The youngest nun’s eyebrows furrow, making Beatrice pause. But only dreams make Camila squirm—she fights off the waves that cast a reflection on her skin. Mary and Lilith aren’t far, but they burrow into the comfort of the glass. Mary’s hand reaches out to the tank—even in sleep, she’s looking for something. She can’t see the minnows that observe her outstretched fingertips. The five of them form a sleeping pod with a mass of giftshop blankets to connect them. Strands of kelp reach the ceiling and disappear where glass meets stone; their fragile leaves act as silent guardians to the sisters below.

Beatrice takes a deep breath. Her world is dim, except for the beacons of sea life that litter the hallway. She’ll have to rely on the glass to find her way out. She has broken memories to guide her, as well—she used to frequent this place as a young girl, long before her boarding school days. Crowds of strangers didn’t bother her back then; perhaps it was because no one looked at her. Maybe she didn’t notice them, or she just didn’t care—all that mattered was the light beyond the tank and how many of its species she could name. She remembers her hands plastered to the glass; she would have to stand on her toes to see the exhibits. Now, she sits upright with the kelp, but keeps her distance.

An eerie silence hangs over the hall. It’s only broken by Ava’s quiet breathing and Lilith’s commentary on her dreams. This place will be bustling with people in a few hours, but for now, Beatrice can sit in the muted waves. She watches the tides sway—she still has to crane her neck to find the water’s surface. That will never change.

Beatrice throws on a sweater, then pulls her bed-ridden hair into a tight bun. A handful of fish offer Beatrice a greeting. Their scales shimmer blue as they emerge from the orange leaves, backlit by soft lights. Even the curious leopard sharks wander towards the glass. A spotted brown tail flicks by Ava’s face, but the girl doesn’t stir. Her face is calm, soothing even, despite being in such a foreign environment. A smile tugs at Beatrice’s lips, but she doesn’t stay long. She preens her free strands of hair, then pulls up her hood and tightens the strings. She fumbles through her sleeping bag, finding her Bible in the blankets. She tucks it under her arm, then checks the heavy weight in her sweater’s pocket. She heads out in her socks, careful to not make a sound.

Beatrice takes one last look at her others. Kelp towers over her—she’s a speck before a goliath. She falls into her fighter’s stance, with one foot in front of the other. Though her sleeping sisters lay motionless, Beatrice finds herself swaying with the kelp. A seabass forms out of the shadows, weaving itself between the leaves. It doesn’t pay Beatrice any mind, but it promises to watch over the women below. They won’t even notice that she’s gone. At least, that’s what that simmering feeling in her heart tells her. 

Beatrice passes the octopus on her way out. She stops at the foot of the glass at the slightest hint of movement. He blends well with the rocks, but his beady eye is visible. A stray tentacle flicks out, revealing rows of suction cups that plaster against the thin barrier between them. He waves a greeting to her. A younger Beatrice would abandon her parent’s side, possibly snake her way through the crowd just to say hello. Now, they stare at each other in silence, each expecting to be swallowed by the other. Beatrice is the first to break eye contact, heading up the stairs in a hurry. She adjusts the hood to cover her face.

Once she reaches the top of the stairs, she whisks a small vial out of her pocket, filled with water. She remembers getting it blessed only days before they abandoned the Cat’s Cradle. The tension in the air hung thick that day, but of all the scenarios that she ran through, she never could have predicted this outcome. She certainly didn’t expect Ava to come back, much less with such foolhardy determination to set things right. She couldn’t have predicted Lilith’s questionable resurrection, or meeting Adriel on the battlefield. But most of all, Beatrice didn’t expect to miss her first Sunday Mass in years. After such a public display of blasphemy, stepping foot in a cathedral would be a death sentence. So here she is, walking across the skybridge in silence. A bay lies before her, lit pink by the sunrise. Barnacle-encrusted rocks build a barrier to the sea. They line the coastline, jutting towards the skybridge like sharp teeth. The glass protects Beatrice from the coastal wind, but she tightens the strings on her hood regardless.

This may not be a cathedral, but she’ll make it work. Beatrice bears witness to the rising sun. Seabirds join her in prayer atop white-stained rocks. They could be a congregation if she sits here long enough. The landscape floods orange, and the sun’s warmth pricks her cheeks. The smell of myrrh is notably absent, but it’s replaced with saltwater and an ever-present cold. Beatrice sighs to herself, then heads across the bridge and into the rest of the aquarium. Gray walls press into her again, and that blazing light is snuffed out. 

Beatrice’s socks slide against the cold floor. She passes the jellyfish, only noticing them in the corner of her eye. There must be hundreds of them, all different colors and sizes. Some even glow; they refract the entire spectrum of color from what little light they have. The largest tank is impossible to ignore. These jellyfish are massive, spanning the length of the wall. Sea nettles—the name pops into Beatrice’s mind, and the plaque confirms her thoughts. As their billowing forms float by, she thinks of Camila. Wouldn’t this make her smile? Wouldn’t she point excitedly at the frills tangled in deadly strings? Wouldn’t Lilith get caught in the bioluminescence, and wouldn’t Mary laugh at the strange shapes they made? Her sisters are only a floor below, but they feel so far away. Stark gold trails across the glass, but Beatrice hurries past its magnificence. She only has so much time before the aquarium opens.

Only the sardines stop her. The school of fish seems to be in infinite supply but confined to such a tiny space. Sardines swirl above her in a makeshift halo. Their nimble forms glint against the tank light, making them shimmer. Beatrice gets caught in their pinprick eyes, but she can’t pick out one individual from the rest. They twist in unison; their chosen formation never falters. Beatrice drops her hands, catching her Bible in her fingers. The sardines cast an ethereal light on her. She cranes her neck to take them all in. Then, her hood slips off, falling to her shoulders.

Her chest stirs, but it’s overpowered by something entirely different. The glass protects her from the halo’s brilliant light, sure. But a thousand tiny scales still graze her skin in one form or another. The water floods in, filling her core and rising high. Beatrice pulls up her hood, then hurries out into the open. The darkness swallows her, along with that brilliant shimmer of silver. She has to stay focused, she tells herself—she doesn’t have much time.

The next room is massive, dominated by a single tank in the center. It spans an entire wall and casts a deep blue on the empty auditorium behind her. Sharks dominate the center, swimming passively by. Tuna wander the edges, their forms flicking before disappearing into the depths. She forgot how massive they are, yet how nimble their rounded bodies can be. One breaks off from the group on occasion to dive between the jet streams. The others cut down in a diagonal line, yellow fins flashing. Bubbles rise from the bottom—Beatrice can float here. Blue consumes her world, but its creatures don’t seem to notice her. It’s as if she’s been here all along.

Beatrice settles down at the bottom of the stairs, setting her Bible on the floor. She flips to a bookmarked page. Her delicate writing is scribbled along the edges, but none of the ink is smudged. She goes for the vial of holy water next. Careful to pop the cork from the glass, she drips some of it onto her fingers. Kneeling down, she shuts her eyes, signing the cross on her chest. It makes her heart settle somewhat. However, it can’t shake the feeling that there should be crowds here, filled with familiar faces. There should be candlelight, and she should have something nicer to wear than a faded sweater. 

Her eyes adjust to the light when she opens them again. There’s another school of sardines far below her. Their shadows dance at the bottom of the tank, making the same circular halo from before. 

Beatrice shakes herself, forcing her shoulders to relax. Then, she spills the rest of the contents out of her pockets. She sets a few candles on the carpet, emblazoned with the aquarium’s logo. Shuffling deep in her pockets, she procures a particularly old lighter. It gleams silver in her hands, but has several scratches around the flint.

Something gnaws at her stomach as she strikes the lighter. No spark appears, but it leaves a dark spot on her thumb. She tries again, feeling the swipe against her skin. Nothing. She crouches down, better positioning herself on her knees.  
When she glances up, a hammerhead speeds across the glass. Her heart leaps, but the shark pays her no mind. It just stares back with an unblinking eye. It watches her fail to create a spark, again and again. The glass is endless, and the space between them is vast, but the air grows denser with every _click, click, click_ she makes. Her thumb starts to sting, and she grips the lighter with both hands. Her palms grow sweaty as she tries again, and again. But it can’t produce a light, no matter how much she wills it. 

Her hands slip, and she drops the lighter. Only then does she notice her trembling fingers. Something squirms in her gut, sending the rest of her adrift—no, it’s fine. She doesn’t need candles; God can do without them. 

Her congregation is starting to dwindle. The hammerhead is long gone, and even the tuna stray, their shadows falling into the watery depths. But Beatrice hangs on. She rises from her knees, shaky as they may be. She challenges the sea head-on. It’s far more expansive than she can conceptualize. The vast blue seeps into her skin without a sound. It fills that hole in her stomach, but only temporarily.

Beatrice clears her throat.

“Our Father, who art in heaven…”

Her voice booms in the auditorium. It rattles against the glass, making nearby fish flee. Beatrice is stunned for a moment, watching that little piece of the sea with wide eyes. Then the fish creep back, slow to find their patterns again. The room is eerily silent—there should be more voices here. It shouldn’t feel so cold.

“Hallowed be thy name,” Beatrice finishes, her voice shaky. She takes a deep breath, monitoring the pacing of her heart. She clasps her hands in front of her, then rubs them together. The tuna join her as they swarm her empty space.

“Thy kingdom come, thy will be done,” Beatrice continues, “On earth, as it is in heaven.” Her voice grows quieter as she speaks, and her gaze falls to the ground. She’s not used to projecting like this, and she struggles to sit comfortably with the idea of preaching to a nonexistent choir. Something sends her to that old cathedral she used to attend, back in London. When she was little, she could easily hide in the pews or speak her parent’s words. The smell of incense always guided her way, along with several pairs of outstretched hands. They were conditional, yes, but they were there. That comfortable weight in her stomach sinks deeper into the water. 

A shadow passes over Beatrice. A sea turtle comes to listen, his flippers spread wide. Waves dapple against the blocky patterns on his shell. His body stills, but he glides effortlessly through the water. Beatrice wonders how he can hold his breath like that, and for so long. Something makes her grasp the crucifix on her chest, and she sighs, expelling the hot air out.

“And forgive us our trespasses, as…”

There’s a flash in the corner of the glass. Sardines shudder at her words. She’s overcome by that silver halo again—Beatrice can’t avoid it anymore. The sardines nimbly avoid the sea turtle’s path, racing up the tank before diving to the floor. Their paths spiral inwards, creating a makeshift whirlpool. It drags Beatrice down, but she tries to hold herself high. Her voice sputters.

“As we forgive—” 

And just like that, Beatrice is swept up by sharks. Water boils in her throat, and there’s a sting of hot-white tears. Hammerheads twist and turn, recoiling their bodies under the sardines’ influence. Their strange shapes jut out of the fray, and they glide through the silver before being consumed by the dark. 

Beatrice drops her hands, and her crucifix dangles from her neck. She gazes up to the water’s surface, searching for the fluorescent lights that she desperately needs. Instead, her hood falls, and the cold exposes her ears.

“As we… fuck.”

Her swearing sounds more like a quiet plea, but it’s not enough to save her. Her knees buckle, and she bows to the sardines. The vial falls as her hands hit the floor, and holy water stains the carpet. Her personal Bible lays before her, untouched. Waiting. 

What was she thinking? She can’t perform a Mass alone. The sharks could hardly be a congregation, even if they tried to pretend. Even if she used to believe them, in her childhood imagination. But it was never about the sharks. Beatrice never particularly cared for them. It’s the world beyond the glass that brings her to her knees, the way she can search the endless blue and only find the darkest spots.

Her gaze falls to the ground; she doesn’t dare face the tank. Her fingers curl against the floor, and her vision blurs. She doesn’t have the strength to sob, not yet. Instead, her sniffles echo through the empty room. Her own voice bounces off the ceiling to ring back in her ears. She tries to regulate her breathing, tries to quiet her mind, but nothing seems to work. She’s caught in a million timelines; she counts all of the things she can’t forgive. There’s Shannon, lit up blue, and the silhouette of a boarding school in the hills. A friend she stopped speaking to, a house she stormed out of in a hurry. A man she had too much faith in; a girl that has too much faith in her. A part of her needs to mourn the blue-stained glass. 

Another shadow bears down on Beatrice, but this time, it comes through the entrance, where the sardines blessed her. A silhouette of a girl in a ponytail grows taller, approaching Beatrice cautiously. The nun braces for something, though she’s not sure what. She can’t stop the pitiful noises that come from her, no matter how much she tries to shake this sudden wave of torment. Beatrice wipes the tears from her eyes, then rises to her knees in mock prayer. She doesn’t bother to put her hood back up.

“Bea?” Ava’s voice fills the void. “Is that you?”

Beatrice tries to control her breathing, but she just chokes herself up. Ava shuffles over. She toys with her hair, messy from a less-than-ideal night’s rest. She sits cross-legged beside her, letting their knees bump against one another. Her gaze scans the remains of the service, unlit candles and all. Ava scoops up the vial of holy water, half-empty. She puts a few drops on her fingertips, then signs the cross over herself. 

Beatrice looks up at her for the first time, wide-eyed. There isn’t a tinge of pity or remorse on Ava’s face. She just gives Beatrice a smile and a shrug of her shoulders. She corks the bottle, then slips it into Beatrice’s sweater pocket.

“Just being respectful,” Ava says. “We’re in a holy place.”

The Halo Bearer shifts in her seat, then opens her arms wide. Beatrice takes the gesture gladly, leaning into Ava’s shoulder. This certainly isn’t what she would call a typical Sunday Mass, but at this point, she’s broken enough rules already. Ava tosses an arm over Beatrice’s shoulders, and her fingers caress the nun’s arm. The cold fades fast, and after a while, Beatrice goes quiet. The blue still haunts her, so she looks to Ava instead. Shimmering waves reflect in Ava’s eyes, but she doesn’t shy away from them. She only breaks away once, to pull out her phone. She sends off a quick text that Beatrice can’t read, then snaps a photo of the dark blue. Ava buries the phone in her pocket, letting the waves consume her again. 

As her cheeks begin to dry, Beatrice peeks at the glass. She watches the trail the sardines make. Her vision comes into focus again; it’s more manageable with another pair of eyes. None of these creatures move with rhyme or reason, but they all seem to know where they’re going. Beatrice tries to hold herself up, hugging herself with one arm. Ava gives her space but doesn’t leave her side. They both get swept up in the sardines together, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder on the carpet floor. Beatrice stretches out her legs, and her socks press against the glass. 

“Whoa,” Ava says, breaking the silence. She points up towards the light, jaw agape. Beatrice’s gaze follows her lead, only to be caught in the eye of another.

A massive sunfish emerges from the depths. It’s larger than Beatrice, but strangely flat in shape; it only occupies a sliver of space. It exposes its whole body to them, staring back with a single, beady eye. Long fins extend across the tank, making it appear taller than its already-gargantuan form. It sinks down to Beatrice’s level just to sit with her. She inches closer to the tank, nearly pressing her nose against the glass. The unlit candles get brushed aside. Her breath fogs the glass, muting the sunfish’s details. Beatrice can’t quite reach it from here, and she’s almost inclined to stand. She ogles at the massive being like a younger Beatrice would, pressed to the glass and basking in its presence without another care in the world.

“Well, damn.” Mary’s words echo through the room. The older woman lets out a sharp exhale, and the awe in her voice is obvious. “That thing looks ridiculous.”

“I think it’s kinda cute,” Ava’s voice booms against her ear. She leans back, directing her words at Mary.

Beatrice shrinks back, looking behind her. Mary stands in the auditorium, wearing a blanket over her shoulders. Lilith isn’t far behind, tugging on Camila’s arm to follow her. The youngest nun is caught up in the jellyfish, just as Beatrice predicted. Her soft voice exclaims something about the way the sea nettles move. A smile creeps up Beatrice’s face.

Mary approaches the massive tank. She gives a respectful nod to the sunfish before settling on the carpet. Mary sets up the candles, then fishes something out of her pocket. There’s a click or two, then a spark—and the smell of burning wax. Mary shuts the Bible closed, hiding Beatrice’s personal writings. The nun watches Mary as she works, then their eyes lock for a moment.

“You holding up?” Mary asks. She puts a hand on Beatrice’s shoulder, giving her a soft squeeze. Beatrice can only nod, giving her a hint of a smile.

“Good,” Mary says, settling down on the carpet. She glances at Ava, chuckling to herself. “Looks like Ava took good care of you.”

Camila and Lilith join them, giving Beatrice their greetings. Lilith’s is more formal, but she gives her sister a knowing smile. Camila, on the other hand, barges her way in, giving Beatrice a hug that knocks the breath out of her lungs. The sisters recreate their makeshift pod that presses up against the glass. A stingray passes by, and Lilith makes a remark about the strange way it glides through the water. It reveals its underbelly, showing the hint of a smile. The sisters cry out in delight, and Ava instinctively grins back. 

There’s still saltwater in Beatrice’s throat, but nobody pressures her to speak. If anything, Mary goes silent with her. As the others gawk at the sardines, Mary and Beatrice sit with the blue. Waves crash over them, twisting the shadows over their faces. Beatrice stays grounded here, with her sisters beside her. Lilith’s voice soothes her as she teases Camila, and even Mary’s sacrilegious interjections feel holy to her. Her heart blooms with a brush of her fingers, as Ava shyly takes Beatrice’s hand, hidden from the sight of the others.

After a while, Lilith glances at the old Bible. The girls start to settle, and talk begins to fade out. If this is to be a cathedral, they only have so much time left. All eyes are on her, but for once, they are devoid of expectation. Instead, anticipation hangs in the air. They wait for Beatrice to do something—start a prayer, sing a hymn, anything. But Beatrice is content with watching the sea creatures go by. And sure enough, so are they.


	2. Lilith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Human** by Daughter

Lilith can’t recall when she left her sisters. Her muddled memories smell of smoking timber, but she can’t make out much else. Lilith stumbles through the grass in a haze. The evening chill makes her shudder; her thin jacket hardly guards against the cold. Wherever she is, she clearly wasn’t prepared for a night out in the woods. Not only that, but she’s utterly alone. Lilith looks to the setting sun; it sets the forest ablaze with light. 

A familiar, piercing ring confirms her thoughts. It starts in the back of her skull, a shrill thrumming that makes her clasp her ears. Lilith reels back, and a nearby tree catches her. Bark scrapes against her jaw, but she leans into the trunk for support.

No, Lilith would never abandon her sisters like this, nor could she find a good reason to wander alone at night. Hell brought her here.

The ringing fades away, leaving her shivering and breathless. There’s still enough light left to find her bearings. Conifers tower overhead—their needles rustle softly. Chickadees talk amongst themselves, careful not to rouse the woodpecker only a stone’s throw away. Lupine floods the forest purple, and their petals are caught in the sunset’s pinkish hue. Even the long grass glows a golden green. Jagged granite mountains define the horizon, towering high overhead. Lilith raises her hand to block the blinding light. She likely only has an hour before the sun disappears behind those peaks if she’s lucky.

Something shuffles in the grass. Whatever causes the noise is only a few paces away. A rustle from a bush confirms the creature’s path. Lilith finds herself following its trail. She creeps quietly, not bothering to inspect the bush’s clustered berries. As juicy as they look, their bright red color is off-putting. Camila would be able to identify them if she were here. Without her, Lilith can’t risk it. Something more than hunger gnaws at her chest, but the nun presses forward regardless. 

An animal trail becomes more defined as she continues her hunt. The creature darts through the undergrowth, but the foliage is too thick for Lilith to make out a distinct shape. A soft rain begins to fall; puffs of cold air track Lilith’s breathing. A fluffy tail darts out of the grass before diving into a deep thicket. She hurries along, hoping the thick smell of rain will cover her scent. 

As she wanders off the path, dry leaves crunch under her soggy boots. The ground is a burnt-autumn red, blanketed by deciduous leaves. Plump mushrooms guard their giant conifers with pride, circling around them in a holy ceremony. 

A crack of a twig makes Lilith look up. The creature is unmistakable as it drags itself into the light. A black fox stares back at her, its eyes all-consuming. The whole forest holds its breath at their meeting, save the constant drumming of rain. For once, the fox doesn’t dare run away. It sits there, frozen, only shaken by the wind. Lilith holds its gaze. She’s lost in the little creature’s eyes, and her heart spikes at every twitch of its furry tail. The fox pulls its ears back, then turns away. It shudders to fend off the rain. Then, the fox glances back. It only acknowledges Lilith for a moment, but she could swear that the little creature is smiling at her. There’s a quick flick of its tail, and it buries itself into the foliage.

As they both dash into the undergrowth, it becomes a free-for-all. Neither Lilith nor the fox bother to keep quiet. It turns into a chase, a challenge of who can navigate the woods better. The fox is nimble in its native terrain, darting through the tall grass and between rock outcroppings. Flashes of black fur jump at Lilith, frequent enough for her to navigate a trail. 

Lilith’s nun instincts kick in. Though these woods are foreign, she’s still a child of the Cat’s Cradle. She vaults over boulders and dashes under half-fallen trees. Occasionally, she rushes into thorns, but the sting of blood on her cheeks doesn’t deter her. Here, in these fleeting moments, Lilith doesn’t need her memories. There isn’t a roadmap for her to recall; the path simply requires faith in what lies ahead. She knows how to track a moving target, how to use her surroundings to her advantage, but most of all, she knows to follow a sign of God when she sees one. At least, it must be a sign of God, or else Lilith has nowhere to go.

The fox dashes towards the water. Lilith nimbly avoids the cattails, jumping across tall rocks to gain a vantage point. The fox’s path becomes clear as the cattails bend to the creature’s will. It breaks through the wetlands, weaving grass blades as it goes. Lilith tenses. Blood roars in her ears, accompanied by a frenzied heart. She can time it just right, wait until the fox is upon her…

She’s on the ground, on all fours, with thick fur in her fingers. Two dark eyes look up at her. She sees the thin vein of an iris around each pupil, begging for mercy. Where Lilith once interpreted mischief in her playfriend’s eyes, she now recognizes fear. Clear marks rake across its body, exposing bare skin. Little blood is drawn, but the claw-like slash is unmistakable. Coal-black talons extend from Lilith’s fingertips, drawing across the fox’s trembling form.

Lilith releases the fox as soon as the guilt sets in. It scurries off, but the nun does not give chase. Instead, she stares at her hands. Her claws glisten in the light of the climbing moon. There isn’t enough light to see the blood on her hands, but it seeps into her stomach anyway. 

The woods are eerily quiet. Pines and firs loom over her in the form of jagged shadows. They obscure Lilith’s view of the sky. There’s a steady trickle of the stream and the soft pattering of rain, but not much else. No birds circle overhead, and though Lilith knows that it’s due to night setting in, her heart tells her otherwise. She rises to her feet, fighting that curdled feeling in her gut. The cuts on her cheeks sting, but it’s painless compared to that demonic ring in her skull. 

Lilith follows the light of the silver half-moon, hopping over the creek with little effort. She plays with a single lock of white hair, running her sharpened claws through the strands. Eventually, she comes across a dirt road. The forest splits here, making way for an uneven roadway. The road opens the sky. There are far more stars than Lilith can begin to count—she must be far from civilization, wherever Hell has brought her. The distant light of the Milky Way cuts through the path, lighting the road before her.

There’s something intensely familiar about this place. Tire tracks follow a beaten fence, supporting blooms of lupine with its rain-soaked wood. Lilith walks along the edge of the road, careful not to step outside of the tire’s path. A hint of a memory arises; she once saw this place through half-closed eyelids. She remembers being curled up in the backseat of a van, halfway between consciousness and sleep. 

The road takes a sharp turn, revealing a lone beacon in the distance. There’s a soft hum of electricity accompanied by a bathing yellow light. Lilith stops, squinting at the sudden brightness. A cabin on the side of the road is its source, perhaps a ranger station or the home of an outsider. Smoke rises through the chimney, sending a single plume of gray into the otherwise-clear sky. 

Lilith’s pace quickens. She practically glides through the grass, abandoning the tire tracks entirely. The grin on her face would be contagious if she wasn’t alone. If her memories are correct, and the tire tracks belonged to the OCS van, whoever lives here must have noticed them—a small army of battle-trained nuns would have been hard to miss. Lilith hurries up the porch steps, treading lightly against the creaking wood. There’s a spring in her step as she approaches the door, a faint smile that she won’t suppress.

Her claws flash out against the wood. There’s a certain void to their black polish. The claws leave a slight scrape on the wood where she nearly knocked. Lilith’s gaze creeps upward, then settles on a small wooden cross mounted above the door. It’s soaked deep in rainwater, but unmistakable in the light. 

Lilith sucks in her breath. There’s a burst of pain, and that hellish headache returns. Lilith clutches her head, accidentally scraping her scalp. As the throbbing ache subsides, she looks down at her hands. Those claws refuse to sheathe, and now, she’s dangerously close to the front door. She takes a step back, glancing to the woods behind her. Part of her wants to dash into the undergrowth and never be seen again. Instead, Lilith takes a deep breath. The silence is maddening, distorting her sense of time.

Something urges Lilith to glance through the window. There are a few worn couches and an old TV buzzing with static. However, it’s her own reflection in the glass that throws her off guard. It’s hard to ignore those haunting eyes, framed by cuts on her cheekbones. She’s a girl of the wilds, with flecks of mud staining her chin. Her hair is tousled, with several strands of white standing out in the dark. She reaches toward her reflection, tapping the glass with a razor-sharp claw.

Only a few weeks ago, Lilith dreamed of a Halo emblazoned in her back. It was her duty to shine on others, she was told. She was trained to stand out, molded to take on something far greater than herself. Now, her heart wavers at the doorway. The girl in the window is not of this world, and Lilith doesn’t recognize her. She’s slightly off, covered in symbols that conceal her face. There’s a wild strength in her eyes that overshadows the girl within. 

Lilith expected a lot of things out of losing her humanity, through angelic means or otherwise, but she never depended on that ever-present fear that she feels now. It leaps from that dark pit in her stomach every time she glances at the little wooden cross at the door. It washes over her in a cleanse of deep-seated guilt, making her hands quiver. On top of that, she wasn’t prepared to miss herself so dearly. Glass separates herself from the stranger in the window. She has much of what she wanted, but now, she prays for the nun she used to be.

A shadow passes by, and Lilith’s heart spikes. Someone’s silhouette fills a distant window. It’s accompanied by a smaller version of itself, standing dutifully beside its parent. The child prances about the father, tugging his hand and pointing in Lilith’s direction. But the larger shadow does not falter. Its head swivels towards Lilith and refuses to budge. Lilith, on the other hand, is stiff with fear. She’s caught by the light, unable to wrench herself free. She stares at the silhouette with ghostly eyes, her clawed hand hovering against the door. 

What could they do to help her, anyway? The question crosses Lilith’s mind. Her thoughts start with a steady trickle, then race into a gurgling stream. Would they have even noticed her sisters pass through, and even if they did, would they care? What would a lone family in the woods even do about a sect of battle-hardened nuns? Lilith’s hand falls. No. She quickly buries her claws in her pocket, shooting a glance at the figures inside. Now, both of them are still. Lilith can’t see their faces, but she can feel their stares burn into her skin.

She shouldn’t be here. Not when she looks like this. Why would she even tell them? That she’s lost in the woods, and can’t remember how she got here? That there are nuns out there that may be looking for her? Lilith glances at the cross on the door. Are they looking for her? Would they even know where to start? Or is she doomed to wander until they cross paths again, in this life or the next?

Tears well in Lilith’s eyes. She doesn’t wipe them away; the silhouettes have seen all of her already. They know what she is, even if they can’t put a name to it. They know just as much as she does; they know enough. The cross at the door is meant to deter bad spirits, and so far, it’s working. Lilith’s throat tightens, and she backs away from the cross. If this family truly follows their faith, they would send her away. They would be in the right to keep the devil out of their home.

Just as her thoughts crash through her mind, the shadows suck her in. There is a ripping pain and a falling sensation, then weightlessness. The cabin vanishes, along with the light within. There’s a glimpse of the dark, a lack of space to breathe, and she’s back in the woods. Lilith lets out a gasp of air, clutching her wound on her abdomen. All that Lilith can do is curl up in the grass. She grips the Tarask wound with one hand and a fistful of dirt in the other, clenching her jaw until the pain begins to subside. Lilith watches the stars, noticing a satellite tracing a path across the sky. Tears stream down her cheeks, but she stays silent.

A sudden flash makes her jump to her feet. Lilith dives behind a bush, peeking over its thorny exterior. It’s nearly pitch-black, with pines silhouetted against a slightly-lighter sky. Sure enough, there’s a beacon in the dark. It looks like a flashlight, scanning through the undergrowth. The light is accompanied by soft footprints, silent to the untrained ear. From the sweeping pattern of the light and the lengthening beam, Lilith can guess that whoever is heading her way.

Lilith dashes away without a second thought. She lets the dark conceal her, nimbly avoiding any stray twig or rustling foliage that may give away her position. She must not have teleported far—the silhouettes in the cabin caught up to her, somehow. The light bears on Lilith’s back, but she manages to stay out of its grasp. She tries to mimic the fox’s movements, zigzagging her route to throw the stranger off. Her head starts to ring again, and her jaw aches from clenching her teeth, but she pushes through it. She can’t risk blacking out again.

Another light appears, softer this time. It’s an old streetlight attached to a powerline, nestled beside an old stone bridge. A river rushes underneath, but pools lazily under the stone support. Lilith races towards it. She can surely get across before the stranger spots her, it’s the only way—

A shout rings out from the woods. A woman’s voice, deep and hoarse from running. The light shudders, but it’s ever-present beam only grows.

Nope, there’s only one other way. Lilith dives into the river. The water is icy cold, and she nearly loses her breath in the sudden shock. She swims against the current, but luckily, she doesn’t have to go far. She’s under the bridge in seconds, cushioned within the arch. The water flows slow here, and she can tread water. The current barely licks her chin. Lilith takes a few gasping breaths; the searing pain in her lungs rises with the night air. It’s quiet for now, and for once, that demonic ring in her mind is silent. Lilith falls numb to the icy cold, but she’s thankful for every second that passes. 

A rush of footsteps is followed by a bouncing beam that glides over the water. It ignites the current, highlighting the white caps that trail over the river. Lilith sucks in her breath. Boots clack against stone directly above her, erratic in their pattern. Blood roars in Lilith’s ears. She breathes through her nose, softly, carefully, but it barely holds back the silent scream in her throat. She sinks deeper into the water, her nose only a few centimeters from the water’s surface. 

The flashlight draws closer. It creeps just to the edge of the bridge—only mere feet away from where Lilith lies. It halts where stone meets water. Lilith’s limbs fail her, though her toes find the river bottom. She gets a sudden burst of energy, the kind that prey may get in the seconds leading to the end of a chase. It simmers in her chest, sending out one last bit of warmth to her limbs.

The light vanishes. It veers off to the side, leaving Lilith in the dark. The footsteps are next to leave, tapping out of earshot. Lilith stays under the bridge for a few more minutes. She lets the silence encapsulate her, and her heart finally begins to calm. She counts to herself, feeling the weight of every second. Then, she wills her arms to move. She gets a slippery handhold on one of the cobbled stones, then pulls herself out of the river. Her waterlogged clothes weigh her down, but Lilith holds on. She finds a foothold, and though she nearly slips, she eventually reaches the top. She lets out a deep sigh, leaning against the railing to rest. She starts wringing out her hair. Water drips onto the bridge, leaving a clear wet stain where she stands. 

Then, a blinding light. Lilith shrivels against the singular beam, pointed directly at her. She pulls her hair back, careful to cover the white strands with her fingers. She holds out a clawed hand, palm faced outward. She expects the silhouette to grab her wrist, open with a punch or a kick, pull out a gun, anything. Lilith keeps her feet planted, but her shaky legs struggle to support her. Nothing happens. Only the wind brushes against her skin, making the cold all the more unbearable.

In the weighted silence, Lilith looks up. The woman with the flashlight isn’t a stranger at all. Lilith would recognize that warm pair of brown eyes anywhere, that slight tinge of sadness in her smile. The way she holds herself is unmistakable, complete with two shotguns resting comfortably on her hips. Her hands make no move to reach for them. Instead, the woman moves the flashlight away to protect Lilith’s eyes. Her arms are slightly outstretched, and the look on her face overflows with concern.

“Babygirl, what happened?” 

Lilith’s heart pounds in her ears. Only at those words do her clawed hands fall and her shoulders slacken.

“Mary—” 

Lilith’s legs give out before she can say anything else. Mary catches her before she falls, careful to heave the nun back to her feet. She throws Lilith’s arm over her shoulder, taking most of the other woman’s weight.

“H-How did you find me?” Lilith asks. She uses the last of her energy to hold out her fingers, careful not to dig her claws into Mary’s shoulder.

“Got lucky, I guess,” Mary admits. She repositions herself to hold up Lilith, nudging her forward. “C’mon, lets get you back home.”

Lilith mutters something comprehensible enough to mimic an agreement. Mary leads on, heading over the bridge and deeper into the woods. Lilith recognizes the tire tracks in the road—they’re the same ones that she was following earlier.

“Where are we?” Lilith asks. 

“Germany,” Mary replies. “Camila found us a nice campsite for the next few days.” Lilith glances up at her friend, recognizing the look in her eyes. Mary smiles down at her. “Don’t worry, you didn’t wander too far.”

“Good,” Lilith says. She nestles herself into Mary’s shoulder. As Mary rubs her arm, she starts to feel static in her skin again. Her legs work quickly with the promise of home, staying in stride with Mary’s pace. The flashlight guides the way forward, but it drapes long shadows across the undergrowth. The conifers look menacing from here, jagged at a point, but Lilith’s heart stays still.

Soon, another flashlight emerges from the woods, followed by a silhouette. This one is smaller than Mary’s, but her movements are much more eloquent. As her flashlight crosses Mary’s, her gait quickens, almost racing towards her other sisters.

“Lilith?!” A familiar British accent calls out. Beatrice wraps Lilith into a hug, barely noticing her demonic features. The younger nun’s warmth soaks into her skin, warming Lilith’s chest. 

“You’re soaking wet, you must be freezing,” Beatrice starts to fret. “How long—”

“She saw me and jumped into the river, like a dumbass,” Mary says.

“Language.”

“Hey, it’s been a rough day.” Mary shakes her head at Beatrice, but her eyes linger on Lilith. She gives her an awkward pat on the back, clearing her throat. “Uh, sorry I scared you like that.”

“It’s fine,” Lilith insists. Mary gives her a disbelieving look, but Lilith only smiles back. She gives Mary a nudge on the shoulder. “You didn’t mean to.”

She knows neither of them truly believe her, but they don’t press her. Beatrice offers that calming smile of hers. She notices the way Lilith sways on her own feet and quickly comes to her aid. Mary takes up one side and Beatrice the other, keeping her close to stave off the cold.

“Come on,” Beatrice says, heaving Lilith up. “Ava and Camila are waiting for us.”

They walk for a while, though Lilith can’t tell for how long. Sleep takes hold fast, and she struggles to keep her eyelids open. Mary gives her a tempered jab from time to time, just to keep her awake. Every muscle in her body is strained. Just when Lilith thinks she can’t walk any further, a new light source comes into view. A roaring fire lights up the trail, igniting that old black van that’s starting to feel like home. This scene looks familiar— a few tents are set up in a circle, complete with blankets strewn around the campfire. Camila and Ava talk quietly, their faces lit by flying embers. They sit crisscrossed on the blankets, and Ava gestures wildly with her hands. Camila notices the others first, and her face goes slack. She’s on her feet in an instant.

“Lilith!” she cries out. She hurries over to the group, thanking Mary and Beatrice as she takes Lilith’s numb hands. Lilith is guided towards the fire, and she can’t help but lean towards the flame. Camila sets her beside Ava, who eyes her nervously. 

“Okay, stay right there,” Camila insists. “I’ll get more blankets. Warm up by the fire and we’ll get you some fresh clothes, okay?”

The youngest nun dashes toward the van before Lilith can even give her thanks. Beatrice quickly follows her. Mary leads Lilith to the fire and then saunters after the other sisters.

Lilith resorts to sitting in silence with Ava, as usual. They both watch the flames sputter in the wind. Lilith glances at the other girl occasionally. The Halo Bearer’s hair is tousled, and there’s a leaf or two caught in the strands. It looks like she’d been in the woods all night, possibly looking for her as well. Lilith’s gaze wanders, and she recognizes an abandoned flashlight sitting beside Ava, turned off.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Ava says. She glances at Lilith, then immediately looks back at the fire. The van creaks, and out comes Camila. She drops a steaming cup of hot water in front of Lilith, then hurries off into her tent.

“We ran out of tea?” Camila calls out in Mary’s direction. “Who let us run out of tea?!”

Ava and Lilith chuckle at that, then fall silent. Ava stiffens, then reaches for her pocket. She pulls out a little package, tearing it open. She pours a dark powder into Lilith’s cup, and the smell of hot chocolate immediately hits Lilith’s senses. It mixes with the smell of burning logs and the incense of the pines overhead.

“Don’t tell anybody,” Ava says. Her tone is serious, but her eyes have a playful gleam to them. Lilith smiles back at her, then nods solemnly. They watch their sisters panic in mutual silence, Camila barking out orders as if Lilith’s arrival was as pertinent as the battle at the Vatican. Mary and Beatrice run about the campsite scolding and laughing at one another. Occasionally, Lilith feels the brush of a hand across her shoulders.

Lilith looks down at her mug. Her claws have all but disappeared. Whatever entity is occupying her must be satisfied.


	3. Mary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Salt and the Sea** by The Lumineers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh. This one got heavier than I expected. Here's my warning to go read some fluff if you need to.

Mary has never attended a funeral. She decided long ago that it was a privilege she wasn’t meant to have. The deaths in her life never followed with caskets and flowers. There were never any eulogies spoken; it was either too hard to speak, or there was nothing left to say. Everyone that she lost was taken in an instant—a gunshot, an explosion, a final plea. Hell always breaks through her seemingly stable reality when she least expects it. The flames come quick, but Mary always finds a way out of the smoke. Through the years, she has learned how to sift through the ash by following the scent of frankincense. There’s always a path for her to take, a new life to live. There are always those among the living that still need her.

But now, after everything? Mary isn’t sure where she is supposed to go. So, she heads to the only place she knows.

The morning mist bears heavy on her back, but Mary carries the weight gladly. Her early trek gives her a chance to soak in the silence. She keeps a slow pace, walking with a steady limp from her last fight with the Tarask. The oak trees don’t question how she got here. They dot the landscape before her, only uttering a sound with the occasional creak in the wind. 

Storm clouds rise in the distance. They threaten to worsen the journey, but Mary marches to greet them. Soft grass graces her ankles, leaving her boots muddied and soaking. Occasionally, her feet sink into the mud, but she manages to find steady ground with a few calculated steps. Both shotguns bump against her hips; they goad her forward, keeping her in pace with the oncoming clouds.

Eventually, Mary finds the paved road she was looking for. It’s cracked with time, filled in by tree roots and dandelions. The road must not be used often anymore. Asphalt crawls into the hills, followed diligently by powerlines. When Mary pauses, the steady hum of the electric wire fills the gaps of quiet. Birds nestle into gaps on the wooden poles, unbothered by the static. As they ruffle their feathers, Mary shakes out her bad leg before setting out again. She isn’t quite sure where she is, but she can have faith in the powerlines to guide her way.

Sure enough, an old fence reveals itself in the mist. It can barely hold back clusters of stone crosses within. That’s when Mary stops. Monuments stand tall against the horizon, crawling back to as far as she can see. Neat rows of headstones are interwoven with downed oak branches. The morning dew settles deep in this place, soaking into the earth and rendering it bone-cold. Only the magpies break the stillness, hopping from grave to grave in search of something new. When Mary reaches for the gate, the birds take to the sky. Iridescent blue flashes at the beat of their wings. As the gate creaks open, the clang of metal tolls—the graveyard must know of Mary’s presence by now. 

Mary takes a deep breath, and her lungs shudder. She watches puffs of condensation rise on her exhale. When she takes tentative steps forward, she’s careful not to step on weathered marble that spills into the grass. The gate shuts on its own, though the second sudden clang nearly makes Mary jump out of her skin. She shrugs the tension out of her shoulders, then starts to walk again. Only the wind whispers here, sighing softly through blades of grass. Mary listens intently but gets nothing in return. She could sit here for hours in the company of the oak trees if she had the time. 

A ping disrupts the silence, but it doesn’t surprise her this time. It calls from deep in her pockets. Mary fumbles through her trench coat, and her fingers clasp around her phone. When she fishes it out, she’s confronted with a picture of her sisters on a blinding white screen. They’re all crammed together in the pews of some nameless cathedral—Mary can’t remember where it could have been. Their faces exude nothing less of pure delight—even Lilith shares that hidden grin that Mary hasn’t seen in years. Camila nestles close, giving Beatrice’s arm a tight squeeze. But Mary’s face is obscured by a single notification; a text emblazoned with Ava’s name.

> Where tf are u? We’ve got the first watch.

Mary locks the phone; the light dies in an instant. She’s off on her march again, without so much as a second glance at the girls on the screen.

The mist adds a heavy weight to her slog in the mud, though it starts to break with the aging day. She’ll have to wade through the headstones to find what she’s looking for. Stone angels congregate near the center, gracing her as she passes. Their wings protect the graves from the intermittent rain.

Mary tries not to look too hard at any one plot for too long, but it’s impossible to miss the details—these graves are ancient, and much of their writings are faded. Decades turn to centuries as marble rows shift to stone. These graves are even less distinguishable, encrusted in lichen and half-dried moss. However, a select few are clean, shining even. Someone had taken care of them recently but had not left behind any clues to claim their hard work. These graves’ names read clear and roll easily off Mary’s tongue. They identify several Sister Warriors with the symbol of the Order of the Cruciform Sword. As Mary pushes forward, the dates get closer to the present day, though the sisters of old still weave themselves within the new. Occasionally, Mary notices a name that she recognizes. She’ll pause to bear witness to her, but she never loiters for long. 

Finally, a white cross catches her eye. The marble craftsmanship is flawless, complete with a wreath and ordained with the symbol of the Order. Its clean white slate catches what little sunlight shines down on them, lighting up the graveyard at a singular point. Even the oaks pull back in reverence, with their naked branches towering over the newly-churned soil. No flowers adorn the grave, and Mary starts to regret not finding any. But a sudden burst of color would look out of place, anyways. Shannon belongs with knights of old now—her cross will fall to the centuries, along with the Warrior Nuns before her. One day, Mary will rest here, too. The oaks can outlive them both, and the moss could warm their bones. But right now, the best that Mary can do is give Shannon her time, especially while she still has time to claim.

Mary pulls the chain of Shannon’s medallion towards her chest. The ice-cold metal clings to her skin, but she doesn’t dare let go. Neither will Mary’s feet leave the sodden ground.

She didn’t expect the tears to come this quickly. The white tombstone blurs—it’s impossible to focus on any one intricate detail. But Mary can’t pull the picture of Shannon out of her mind. Shannon, in all her glory, in all her little moments, vivid beyond compare. Her smile, her dumb pranks, her final whisper in Mary’s ear. Faces always become clearest when she can’t see them anymore, Mary realizes. So, she contends with the fuzzy landscape and the stone that bears the semblance of a cross.

Her phone pings once or twice; it brings Mary back to reality for just a moment. She wrestles her phone out, squinting in the sudden light. It’s Ava again, framed by familiar faces, bumping a second notification above the last. Mary has to scroll to see all the messages:

> Watch? Remember?
> 
> C’mon
> 
> Don’t chicken out on me, dude.

Mary audibly snorts at that. She pockets the phone again, shaking her head at the Halo Bearer as if she were standing right in front of her.

“Damn, Ava,” Mary says to herself. “Give me a minute.”

She pockets the phone once more, leaving Ava’s notifications unread. Mary squats down to Shannon’s level. She has to lay a hand onto the ground to stabilize herself. Her weight sinks into the mud, but the silky texture between her fingers is oddly soothing. The rain patters softly against the branches overhead. Her focus narrows in on the white cross, and the rest of the graveyard dissolves before her. Even the angels give them privacy. 

She doesn’t know what to do, at first. This is entirely new to her—she’d gone to Mass a thousand times, talked herself through the Bible from cover to cover, but nothing could prepare her for the lump in her throat, or the pitiful way her lips waver when she tries to speak. There is nobody there to judge her at all, and even if there were, Mary wouldn’t particularly care. But her convictions don’t take the weight in her chest away—she’s not sure if anything would. So, Mary sits in the mud with her fallen sister. Her hand presses into the grass; it’s as close as Mary can get to her. The rain numbs her fingers, slipping them deeper into the ground below.

“We figured it out, Shannon,” Mary manages to say. The medallion slips from her grasp, but her fingers clasp the chain. The outline of Saint Cristopher glints in the soft light. She clears her throat to avoid the cracks in her voice—God. She hates the way it sounds. 

“I-I hate that you knew what was coming,” Mary admits. “I wish you could’ve felt safe enough to tell me—”

Her phone pings, breaking the buildup of static in her chest.

Mary groans. 

“Goddammit.”

Mary starts to rummage for her phone again, then stops. Her fingers grace its smooth edge but don’t quite reach to take it. Her remaining sisters can wait. Mary may not get another moment to sit here. She clutches the pendant to her chest to ease the tightness in her heart. Her throat closes up at the thought of speaking to Shannon again, so she takes a moment to breathe instead. Mary can’t quite face Shannon’s grave, so she looks to the sky instead. 

The sun breaks through the never-ending storm, reaching down to Mary in defined rays. A crusade roars above her, an unyielding light clashing with a gray spread deep. The rain acts as a split between both sides, pouring down in liquid starlight. Mary can’t help but stare, watch the sun gain on the otherwise-dismal heavens. She and the dead are of little consequence to the sky’s plight, and Mary prefers to keep it that way. 

Her phone starts to ring, but the volume is low. It hums softly, adding a beat to the otherwise silent atmosphere. The ringtone mixes with the gentle patter in the oak branches, muffled by the folds of her coat. She lets it play for as long as it chooses to sing.  
The ringtone stops just as Mary hears the gate entrance slam shut.

Mary’s body goes rigid. Her hands drop to the shotgun holsters on pure instinct. Cold metal trails against her fingertips and it snaps her back to reality. Her gaze trains onto the source of the sound. The gate lies open, but wavers in the wind. It creaks as the gusty air rocks it back and forth, only stopping in the moments of stillness in between. Mary scans the graveyard, but only the subtle sway of the oaks shows any sign of movement. Otherwise, the world remains still.

Mary sighs, letting go of her shotguns. She reaches for her phone instead. Even among the dead, Mary gets too antsy for her own good. She shudders at each gust of wind, pulling her coat closer. The light from her screen blinds her momentarily, but she adjusts without much issue. There’s a missed call from Camila, of course, and a string of texts from Beatrice:

> Mary?? Did you turn your tracking off?  
>  Where are you?!

Mary shuts the phone off but doesn’t pocket it yet. Beatrice’s nervous voice runs in her mind, but it soon fades out with the rain. She goes to kneel at the grave once more, but a chill down her back makes her stop. It wasn’t prompted by the wind this time, or the whistle through the dormant branches. There’s movement up ahead, in a cluster of tall monuments. A letterman jacket stands out as a bright red stain against the stone. The ripped jeans come next, matched with muddied sneakers. A boy leans against a stone monolith, topped with one of God’s messengers. He needs a haircut badly—jet black strands shield his eyes, but he doesn’t push them back. He’s utterly alone, save Mary’s presence. But the boy doesn’t notice her—he’s transfixed by the light that rips through the storm.

Mary shuffles forward, trying to hide her limp. The sky darkens, casting a shadow over the tombstones between them. Mary notices the scrapes on the boy’s arm as she approaches, along with the purple blotches on his cheekbones. The boy doesn’t circle any one grave, not in the way that Mary stays with Shannon. He just uses the stone monument as support, unbothered by the name etched in the stone. If that drop in Mary’s gut is right, then he’s not here for the sake of the dead.  
Her phone pings. It’s loud enough to break the wall between them.

The boy glances at Mary. Despite his youthful look, there’s no life to him—his skin is ghostly pale, his bony structure unnervingly pronounced. The void in his eyes threatens to suck Mary dry. He’s likely been like this for days, maybe even weeks, roving the countryside without a clue as to why. His posture is rigidly straight, his gaze caught on the woman in the headstones. Rain bleeds down his face in the open light.

Mary’s phone pings a second time. She hardly notices it. 

There’s a certain expression on his face not befitting of a young boy. His lips curl in recognition of the Sister Warrior. He is a true wolf in sheep’s clothing, snarling under layers of wool. Mary saw that face in the Vatican once, approaching her sisters with such ferocity that she had no choice but to make a stand. The boy’s face is as twisted as it was back then, barely giving away the devil beneath. 

Mary’s phone pings twice, one text quickly following the other. It disrupts the weight of the sky, letting her breathe before her heart seizes up again.

The boy smiles. His expression is twisted, almost delighted. But as he taunts Mary from afar, his body starts to slouch. Mary doesn’t know how he came to be this way, but he has clearly walked one too many miles. The boy sways with the wind, but it’s only noticeable under Mary’s trained eye. He walks on sacred ground with dirty sneakers, always taking one step too close for comfort. 

Adriel isn’t kidding anyone, and he knows it. 

Mary’s phone pings again. And again. And again. It becomes a constant ring in her ears, a steady drumbeat to acknowledge the seconds that pass. The two of them are isolated, separated by the sun and the storm, and the dead gather around to watch. The problem is, Mary isn’t sure which part of the sky guides her.

Mary stares back at those haunting black eyes; neither of them wavers. Rage trickles down her throat, leaving a metallic tang on her tongue. It tastes vaguely of gunpowder, a byproduct of the rising fumes in her chest. It threatens to blow through her and pick up where the weather left off. But Mary doesn’t move. Instead, tears flow freely with gritted teeth. She steps forward, putting her body between the boy and Shannon’s grave. Her bad leg trembles on uneven ground. Her sisters continue to plea through her phone, disrupting the silence with the occasional, jarring chime. But Mary doesn’t listen to them—she can’t afford to, not now. 

“Whatever you have to say, say it,” Mary says. Her lip quivers at her words. The world starts to blur as her eyes water, and she gets caught in the boy’s silhouette. If Adriel has a shred of guilt on his conscience, Mary wants him to feel the depths of it all. The mist comes back with vengeance, obscuring the path between them but not quite covering the sun. Her phone reflects in the daylight, catching a glint against the headstones.

Adriel says nothing. The smile is wiped from her face, but his vacant eyes stay glued on Mary. Each second is agonizing, only indicating the passage of time through the quake of the oaks. 

“Not gonna talk, huh?” Mary’s voice pierces through the quiet. “So, you just brought this kid to taunt me?”

The devil’s grin deepens, but he continues to stay silent. Either he cannot use the boy’s own tongue, or he knows that he doesn’t need to speak. 

“Fine,” Mary says. She stuffs her phone in her pocket, flipping the switch to put it on silent. She starts to turn away, but still keeps her gaze steady on him. “Go find another hobby. You’re not gonna waste my time.”

The boy approaches her before Mary can turn away. The sudden movement makes her go rigid. She can feel his gaze in the back of her skull, waiting for the right moment to strike. The last-ditch adrenaline gives her pause.

Mary takes a deep breath, then glances back. The devil acknowledges her, standing deathly close to her protected stretch of soil. He eyes Shannon’s grave, raising a finger in the direction of her exposed soil. Just a finger, nothing more.

Friction rips into electricity, setting Mary’s body ablaze. By the time the first wave of rage sets in, Mary has one loaded shotgun pressed against the boy’s temple. She can’t even recall the second that passed in between. She breathes hard, her finger trembling against the trigger.

“ _No_ ,” Mary says. Her voice comes out in a whisper, but her words weigh heavy in the air. “You won’t touch her.”

The boy doesn’t flinch at her words. That unnerving grin never falters.

Now, she understands why Adriel possessed the boy. This would be too easy if she were looking at Adriel’s face, or even Father Vincent’s. But the boy is a different story. There’s still a youthfulness that clings to his husk, a certain personality to his soiled band shirt. His jacket has the stitch of some school mascot that Mary doesn’t recognize, but it’s worn proud against his heart. He is, at the end of the day, one of the innocents. He belongs to the masses that overcame her at the Vatican, acting as a barrier between herself and the justice that she brings. He holds no allegiances but to a family that Mary does not know. She has no power to judge him here.

Mary’s shotgun wavers, but the metal stays pressed against his skin. Still, Adriel does not speak. He waits patiently for her next move; he’s biding his time for the expected to happen. And that just makes the pain in Mary’s chest burn brighter.

“You’re a goddamn coward.” Her voice is almost a whisper, but it drips with righteous anger. White-hot tears fall onto the hallowed ground, dripping faster with the seconds that pass. Her chest heaves to make up for the air lost to her heavy convulsions. She keeps one hand placed firmly against Shannon’s cross. The other presses the barrel of the gun closer against the possessed boy’s temple. She gets caught in his eyes, an endless black that refuses to refract the light above.

“MARY!”

Both of them turn towards the voice. A shadow passes over the graveyard, sucking in reality with a faint orange glow. A lone figure appears out of the mist—it’s enough to make Mary relax her hold on her shotgun. The dash of white in her hair is unmistakable in the sunlight. 

“Lilith—” 

“Drop it,” Lilith says, gesturing to the shotgun. Her sister walks out into the open, gracing the headstones with her fingertips. There’s a strange energy about her, but it’s an energy that Mary knows. 

“You know I can’t do that.”

Lilith approaches Mary’s side, not once looking the possessed boy in the eye. There’s an understanding that passes between the two of them that Mary can’t quite explain. The boy takes a step back, but still keeps an eye on the shotgun pointed his way. Lilith takes a step forward in his place, setting her hand on Shannon’s grave.

“You have to,” Lilith says. She motions to the boy, who grins back at the two of them with enough ease to make Mary’s skin boil. “Look at him, he’s messing with you.”\

“I know—”

“Then don’t be an idiot. Let him go.”

“Lilith, this has to stop,” Mary insists. She looks her sister dead in the eye. “He’ll keep hurting people if we don’t do something.”

“And what are you going to do? Shoot him?!” Lilith reprimands her, throwing her hands in the air. “That won’t fix anything, Mary. This is ridiculous…” 

“Where’s Ava, then?” Mary asks. She reaches for her phone, feeling the cold metal against her free hand. “We can keep him here until—” 

“Mary, _no_ ,” Lilith cries out. “You’re becoming obsessed!” 

Mary stops at the words on Lilith’s tongue. It sends her back to the ferryboat and the mirrors they broke trying to hold each other back. Back then, Lilith swung a sword with ease and without much second thought—they left themselves bruised and battered. Now, she stands tall, her gaze steady. Mary is the one brandishing a weapon on holy ground; she’s the one with the limp in her step. She’s the one looking the devil in the eye and putting her life at stake.

Blood had stained Mary’s lips when she called Lilith out like that. That same metallic taste remains, but now it comes from fallen tears. A sob that threatens to come out of her throat, only held back by bated breath. Mary wipes her cheeks dry with her free hand. She keeps a shotgun trained on the boy, though he may as well have disappeared. 

“Shannon wouldn’t want to see you like this,” Lilith mutters. She avoids Mary’s gaze, crossing her arms to disguise her own pain. “And the rest of us don’t want to, either.” 

Mary glances at the sky to check the progress of the battle above them. There’s something about the way the sun stains the ground in moments like this. Only the devil can be comfortable here, slouched against the pressure of her shotgun. But he waits patiently, his lifeless eyes darting between both women. He’s caught in the static of Lilith’s presence— the strange hunger in her eyes, her unnatural pace as she shifts against the ground. But Lilith is focused entirely on Mary and the grave at her side. She’s careful with the marble, caressing it softly with her fingertips. 

“Check your phone,” Lilith says. “Please?” 

Mary sighs. She glances between the nun and the demon, looking them both in the eye before reaching her phone. She’s greeted by her sisters again, beaming at her through the bright screen. She’s reminded of Camila’s missed call, along with a string of new texts.

“Give me a minute,” Mary spits at the boy, keeping her shotgun aloft. She unlocks her phone, only to find the first texts from Camila:

> Call me back asap. Please?
> 
> We’re worried

The rest, of course, is a string of relentless spams from Ava:

> Hey 
> 
> Hey
> 
> Hey 
> 
> Hey
> 
> Mary 
> 
> The fuck
> 
> Seriously you’re freaking me out
> 
> Pls answer
> 
> Uh oh Lilith’s pissed

Mary starts off with a good-natured chuckle. She can picture those two girls which such clarity, pestering her with their worries. But then her thoughts mix with the concern in Lilith’s eyes, and the feeling of a particular Warrior Nun’s presence in the ground. Shannon is so close, yet always too far away. But the sisters on her lock screen are still here, smiling up at her. Mary doesn’t know how long that will last.

Mary’s laugh constricts into a sob, an ugly sound accompanied by a fresh set of tears. She swallows down the pain, lowering the gun with it. She keeps her fingers clasped against the trigger, but aims it against the grass. The boy stands taller, giving the gunslinger a questioning look. But the two sisters ignore him, especially as Lilith rests a hand on Mary’s shoulder.

“We want to set things right as much as you do,” she says. “But we need a real plan, not this.”

“We might not get another chance—” 

“Mary,” Lilith cuts her off. She takes up Mary’s shoulders, looking the other woman in the eye, “Have faith in us. We’ll find another chance, together. It’s what keeps us safe.”

Lilith’s voice starts to falter. Her gaze falls to the headstones for a moment, but Mary can guess what her sister is thinking. She’s lost in that void between life and death, contemplating all the options she had and didn’t take. When she looks back at Mary, her voice drips with an even thicker conviction.

“We can’t afford to lose you the same way we lost Shannon.”

The storm is wrathful above them, but it’s starting to peter out. The sun reaches far, striking through the mist. But thunder continues to roll through the atmosphere. Mary stands in the rain with Lilith, but she can’t quite see her. Her vision is blurred by the rainwater, lost in the way the oak branches twist into the sky. She has to focus on Lilith’s touch and steady her breath before she can truly recognize her. Then, Lilith’s patience is painfully clear, and such a stone’s throw away from her days chasing after Ava. Lilith had accepted the weight of the sky long ago, when the essence of Hell latched onto her. Mary has yet to do so.

Mary’s grip on the gun loosens. Metal clatters against bare soil, near the foot of Shannon’s grave. Mud stains the polished shotgun at Mary’s feet. The boy looks down at the fallen weapon, then back up at the two women. 

“Go,” Mary says. She utters the word through gritted teeth and a newfound heat on her breath. The fire in her chest does not quell; it only shifts with the change in the wind.

Adriel doesn’t need to hear her say it twice. Mary is not entirely sure why he listens—maybe Lilith’s appearance means something that only they understand, or perhaps he’s decided that Shannon’s grave isn’t worth the trouble. Maybe Mary’s change of heart means that he can’t get what he wants anymore. Either way, the boy turns his back on them both. He meanders through the headstones, not once looking back. The gate stays wide open for him, letting him pass through without a setback. The boy follows the storm, finding the direction that the wind takes him. He continues to walk out into the fields until he gets swallowed by the golden grass. Mary and Lilith watch him go, right until he disappears into the horizon. 

“You better be right about this,” Mary says. 

“I think I am,” Lilith replies. She keeps her gaze fixed on the hills. Mary rolls her eyes on instinct. 

The slightest smile tugs at Lilith’s lips, the kind that Mary never saw after Shannon became the Halo Bearer. Hell must have brought this side of Lilith back, for good or for worse. 

“Wait,” Mary thinks aloud. “How’d you find me?”

“Beatrice found a way to track you. It was a good distraction—you know how she is.”

Mary chuckles at that. Her gaze falls to the shotgun at her feet, and her laughter fades. It gives off a certain gleam in the sun, igniting alongside Shannon’s marble cross. It’s only then Mary realizes that the rain has stopped—the persistent cold fades with the sun’s new rays, casting onto the sea of graves.

“The others are on their way,” Lilith explains, “We can do an exorcism once Ava gets here, at least. He can’t go far.”

“If Adriel’s smart, he’ll be out of the kid long before we get to him.”

Lilith nods at that, letting her hands fall to her sides. They both go quiet for a moment. The gentle sigh of the oaks is enough to fill the space. Mary kneels, picking up the shotgun and wiping the grime away. She carefully unloads it before putting it back into its holster, safe and sound. 

“I know I said you didn’t belong before, but I was wrong,” Lilith says. “I hope you know that.” Her voice is almost a whisper, and though there’s clear discomfort in her voice, her gaze stays steady.

Mary rises from her feet. “Yeah, ‘course I do.”

Lilith clears her throat. The nun looks down at her feet, watching her boots sink into the soil. That small smile comes back again, a bit more obvious this time.

“You still could have shown up to combat skills more often, though.”

Mary whips around to face her. Lilith quickly averts her gaze. She gets lost in the hallowed ground, her gaze tracing the spaces between the grass and the downed oak branches. But her smile only intensifies.

To think, Lilith actually cracked a joke. In a graveyard. On a Holy Sunday. 

Mary does what she does best. Rather than voicing her bewilderment, she slugs Lilith in the arm. The nun cries out in protest, though her voice gets muddled in laughter. Of course, Mary gets a harder slug back—it promptly takes the air out of her lungs. Mary puts up a faux-fighter stance to goad Lilith forward. She’s careful to step between the grave plots, not once stopping to check the way she holds her bad leg. Lilith shakes her head at the older woman, shooting that strangely playful glare of hers.

“Hey,” Mary teases, “Don’t make me explain to Beatrice why you have a busted lip when she gets here.”

“Pffft. You wouldn’t do it,” Lilith spits back. But her form relaxes, and she eventually settles herself in the grass. Mary follows suit, sitting with her legs crossed. They continue to joke for a while, but eventually, they both find themselves face-to-face with Shannon’s grave. The white marble brightens the landscape, far too polished in a sea of broken stone. Lilith goes silent, and when Mary looks over, she notices that her eyes are shut. Lilith mutters a prayer, resting her hand in the dirt. Mary knows that she should be doing the same, but something stops her. 

She doesn’t have anything to say. It’s safe here, sitting in the grass, watching the clouds calm down overhead. She can let her mind wander with a Sister Warrior by her side, not to mention the many others on the way. 

Her phone pings, one final time. Beatrice’s name flashes on the screen, alongside a long text:

> We’re headed out to you. I’ll keep Ava and Camila’s spirits up until we get there.
> 
> I hope everything's alright.

Mary sighs. She types out a text back, sending it before pocketing her phone. The trees relax with the wind, revealing themselves with the dissipating mist. Mary lets her own words sink in, wondering if Shannon can hear them all the same:

> Tell them I’m okay. I’ll see you soon.


End file.
